


Crossing the Borderline

by ProxyOne



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 21:54:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10558312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProxyOne/pseuds/ProxyOne
Summary: I've not written Black Sails fic before, but after that finale I kinda had to do it.  I hope it's okay ♥





	

“I still can't quite believe you're here.”

Thomas smiled in wordless reply, a smile that was filled just as strongly with its own flavour of disbelief. James wondered when, or even if he would be able to stop compulsively saying that every time he met Thomas's eyes, or if they would still be here in another ten year's time, neither one of them quite able to accept that they weren't dreaming.

It had been mere hours since James had been delivered to the plantation, mere hours since he had seen Thomas again, somehow still remarkably unchanged despite their long years apart. They had clung to one another in the middle of the field, heedless of the eyes and the guns surrounding them. James, were he honest with himself, and right now he was, could not have been convinced to care at all if they'd been shot where they stood. Right now, however, he was glad that the guards, the other prisoners, even the plantation owner had turned a blind eye.

“I hadn't expected it to be...” he began, trailing off as he looked around the small room he and Thomas were currently occupying. “Like this.”

He knew Thomas knew what he meant. Prisons weren't like this. Prisoners weren't given privacy, and a place to store what meagre possessions they might have. Which isn't to say that this was remotely close to what Thomas would have been used to, or even what he himself would have been used to before...

_before._

The room was small, barely enough room for the bed and a small chest of draws, the walls plain unfinished wood, the floor bare.  There were certainly no windows, and the collection of similar rooms around them meant they were never truly alone. But it had a bed, and a door, and the promise that this could be _theirs_. No more hiding. No more fighting.

“One grows used to these conditions. And the owner is a good man, taking advantage of bad situations to help those he can.”

“While making more than a little coin on the side.”

“It does rather help,” Thomas replied with another smile. They lapsed into silence, the flickering of the candles painting strange patterns on the walls as James' exhaustion caught up and tried to drag him under. One of the shapes reminded him of Miranda, and he wondered why Thomas had yet to bring her up. He wondered if either of them would; if either of them even _could_. Silver had helped him to deal with her loss, but being here with Thomas, such an impossible thing to even imagine only days ago, made her death feel all the more raw. If only she could have been here to see him, to see Thomas one more time.

“Thomas,” he began, and then stopped. To call this uncharted territory would be an understatement. Uncharted territory had only ever been an annoyance in the past, one that with some effort he could a way to navigate around. This was something altogether different.

“I know.”

Thomas whispered quietly, tugging on James until they were lying on the bed, James' head tucked beneath Thomas's chin, and finally, James cried. He cried for Miranda. He cried for Thomas and their lost years. He cried for Gates, and Charles Vane, for Eleanor and Mr Scott. He cried for John Silver. He cried for himself.

**

They talked a lot, those next few days and weeks. When they weren't working, that is. The work was hard, but they were not unfairly treated, and James found himself grateful for it. It meant he didn't have to spend his days thinking, trapped in the confines of his own mind. And when the work was done, there was food, and there was Thomas.

There was _Thomas._

They shared their stories, Thomas telling of his time in Bethlem. It didn't escape James' notice that he glossed over it, merely stating that it was unpleasant, but the way his features drew tight and the colour drained from his face let him know that was more than just _unpleasant._ After his father had passed away in circumstances no one ever explained to him, Peter Ashe collected him and brought him to Savannah. And here he'd remained, hearing only snippets of information about the outside world. He'd resigned himself to remaining there the rest of his days, fed and looked after, but without the love he had once known.

James wrestled with himself over how much to tell Thomas. In the end, he told him everything. _Everything._ He could have lied, but he didn't. He watched Thomas carefully as he told him that he was the one who had killed his father. A shadow crossed Thomas's face, but it was chased away by a benevolent smile.

“I can't say I'm happy you had to do that,” he remarked, lifting a hand to trace down the side of James' face. “But I understand why you did. Why you _both_ did it.”

Their conversations included Miranda more and more, once James had told Thomas how she'd died. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, knowing now that Peter had known full well that Thomas was so close, alive and well, and did nothing but continue to lie and hide it from them. Miranda could have lived. He found himself wishing he could go back and kill Peter again, and again, and again. He only noticed his clenched fists, fingernails digging into his palms when Thomas took them in his own hands, gently prying them open before James could draw blood. They slept fitfully that night, clinging to each other as though in a bid to stop the outside world from ever intruding again.

Of course, it didn't. Morning came, and they were awoken, fed, and sent back into the fields. That first conversation was the hardest, like forcing broken glass along his throat, but it came easier after that, and they remembered and mourned Miranda together. Thomas was of no doubt that she was looking down at them, keeping them safe. James, despite everything he had seen and done, was inclined to agree with him.

The surprise on Thomas's face when James pulled his copy of _Meditations_ from his pockets was something James wanted to treasure forever. He told its story, in much the same way he'd told his own. He spoke of how it was banished to the shelves for so long, only retrieved by Miranda. He told him how once he could bear to look at it once more, it had kept him sane, kept him grounded and focussed. They didn't speak much the night of that story, preferring to show their feelings in other, less talkative ways.

A year passed, and to James' surprise he found himself becoming a perfect melding of Flint and McGraw, neither man entirely him, but together melded into someone wholly new, stronger, more flexible and less prone to brittle snaps than he once had been.

“Everything I am,” he murmured into Thomas's chest one morning before they rose, “is because of you. You have taken my disparate sides and stitched them together.”

“You are who you've always been,” Thomas replied, his breath tickling the growing out hair on James' head. “You just haven't realised it. I had nothing to do with making you; I only watched you as you finally bloomed.”

James laughed, shifting so he could look up at Thomas.

“You make me sound like a quivering virgin, making my debut as you look proudly on.”

Thomas let out his own laugh, a deep throated sound that washed over James and left him feeling nothing but joy.

“I love you,” he said, unable to take his eyes from Thomas. “There are many things in my life I wish had never happened, but anything that leads to me being with you, I would live through a hundred times over.”

Thomas's face softened, and he lowered his head to leave a lingering kiss on James' lips.

“I love you too,” he breathed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've not written Black Sails fic before, but after that finale I kinda had to do it. I hope it's okay ♥


End file.
